


Birthday

by Thistlerose



Category: The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
Genre: Birthday, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, POV First Person, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:13:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 2006.  Alba has a surprise encounter on her birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday

_September 6, 2017 (Alba is 16, Henry is 9)_

I'm about halfway home when it starts to drizzle, but I don't run for the el. I know that my friends are all at my house, helping Mama decorate. It's supposed to be a surprise, but Priya's really bad at keeping secrets. She didn't tell me outright about the party, but know. I asked her if she wanted to see a movie or something, but she said she'd already made plans, so I _know._

I'll pretend to be surprised, though.

I could stop into a store, I guess. Buying an umbrella would probably be a smart thing. I'm pretty sure Mama will tell me it's what I _should_ have done. But I like the drizzle. It's light and cool, and unlike Mama, my hair doesn't get too frizzy in this sort of weather.

So, I dawdle. 

The sidewalks and streets are already shiny with water. At the intersections, the stoplights reflect red, gold, green, like a drowned rainbow. There isn't much traffic, despite the fact that it's getting close to rush hour. I look at the people sitting in their cars while they wait for the light to change, and I don't really envy them, even though they're probably warm and dry and listening to music.

That's pretty nice, actually – except the sitting, waiting for the light to change – but I've been inside most of the day.

I take a detour, because I feel like it, and end up walking past a small park. Really, it's hardly a park. There's a drinking fountain, a basketball court, and two swings. As I walk past I see that there's a boy sitting on one of the swings. A small boy with heavy black hair, wearing just a jacket that obviously belongs (or belonged, I should say) to a bigger person.

I stop.

He's looking at his knees, so I can't see his face, but I don't have to be able to.

It's him. I just know it.

I mean, he's got the hair. And you don't usually find half-naked children sitting around in parks on rainy days.

It's hard to describe how I feel. I've seen him plenty of times before, but it's always the same. I get this fluttering in my hands and belly, and my legs turn to water. The bridge of my nose hurts like I've suddenly caught a cold.

He's never told me about this meeting, so I have to pretend that I don't know who he is. For a second I think that I shouldn't approach him at all, but then I realize that's stupid. Everyone says we look alike, but when you're really young – I think he must be about eight or nine here – you don't recognize your features or coloring in someone else. At least, I don't think you do.

I can't _not_ approach him. He's my _dad._ I mean, he was. Will be. I don't know. Sometimes I like being a CDP. It can be really cool. I'd never have seen my grandma Annette in concert if I weren't, and I'd have wasted a lot more time on that rat Ben Schroeder if my older self hadn't told me not to bother.

Other times – like right now – it's confusing.

I'm a few yards away when my dad looks up. His face is wet from the drizzle, and smudged with dirt. His green eyes go wide and he slides off the swing so quickly that he stumbles.

"It's okay," I say. "Please don't run off. I'm—" I can't tell him my name. "—not going to hurt you. Are you all right?"

It's a stupid question; it's 2017, it's raining, it's pretty cold for early September, and he's almost completely naked. 

"I'm fine," he mumbles, starting to back away.

"Aren't you charming?" _And aren't you cheeky?_ Dad would say if he were old enough to be my dad, and knew who I was.

"Lemme alone."

I start forward again. "I have clothes if you want to borrow them. Just gym clothes, not anything you'd be embarrassed wearing. I mean, I was playing basketball in them, and they're big, but—"

He stops. I stop too. We look at each other. A raindrop splashes the tip of my nose and drips off. If I started to cry, he probably wouldn't be able to tell. I don't _want_ to cry, but I can feel the need coming. There's this _clump_ of something in the back of my throat.

"It's ok," he says after what feels like a long, long time. "I need to go."

He doesn't move, though, and I wonder if he knows. Or senses. "It's my birthday," I say desperately. Oh god, I _don't_ want him to leave. "My sixteenth."

His brow creases as he processes this information and wonders – I'm sure he's wondering – why I've told him this. "Oh. Happy birthday."

The clump gets bigger. In a very little while it'll be so big that I won't be able to speak. "Thank you," I squeak.

"I really have to go." 

I nod. I know.

He backs away a few paces, then turns and runs. His black hair bounces against the collar of his jacket. I watch until he disappears around a wooden fence.

I want to disappear too. I don't know where – when, I mean – I'd go. Part of me wants to be alone, and part of me wants to see my dad again. Except, I want him to be older, to know me.

Mama and my friends are waiting, though. I bet they have the whole house decorated by now. I bet there are streamers and paper flowers and birds. Colored light flooding every window. Chocolate cake with sprinkles. Music.

I try to smile and swallow the clump, but it won't go away. Well, I'm still only a little more than halfway home. There's plenty of time to compose myself. 

It's not like I won't see my dad again. Maybe I'll see him soon.

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and continue on my way.

06/08/06


End file.
